


Father Figure

by Duckgomery



Series: This Old House [9]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pitch is secretly the dad, coffee and chocolate biscuits makes everything better, don't let anyone tell you otherwise, poor baby, we all know this to be true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckgomery/pseuds/Duckgomery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has to play the part of a parent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father Figure

               The front door slams open, causing all eyes to turn to the pale haired boy who ran on past the kitchen. The slamming of the door in and of itself wasn’t the cause of alarm, being a fairly recent occurrence, all parties residing in the house guilty of committing time and again. It was the fact that the boy, their dearest little shit, failed to spare them any greeting or acknowledgement before clambering up the staircase, bedroom door cracking shut a few floors up.

               The alarming thing was that he’d obviously been in a state of distress, if that splotchy face was anything to go by.

               “Do you think…?” Tooth started, eyes snapping across the table to Pitch, his notes scattered across the table, forgotten in the light of a newer, more interesting drama than his work.

               “He didn’t…?” They both turned their attention to Sandy, who was on his way down the stairs, making enough noise with his steps to capture their attention.

               The shorter man continues into the kitchen, up onto one of the empty seats, a look of disbelief on his face.

               He looks between the two of them, before bringing his hands up to his face.

               “He did,” Pitch declared, solemn expression falling over his face.

               “Oh, the poor dear.” Tooth brings her hands up to cover her mouth.

               Sandy just shakes his head, still cradled in his hands.

               “What should we do? Should we go up, try and cheer him up? How about we-”

               “No, leave the poor boy, give him some space,” Pitch cuts in tiredly.

               “But-”

               “No, Toothiana. The best thing is to leave him alone for a few hours. Trust me, alright?” Pitch gives her a hard look before diverting his attention back to his notes in appearance only, thoughts consumed with worry for Jack.

               It was obvious how Jack felt about Hiccup, they could all see it. It was only a matter of time before the boy acted on it. They’d all hoped that they would stop dancing around.

               Obviously Jack finally mustered the courage.

               Obviously it didn’t go according to the boy’s plan.

 

               Dinner was a quiet affair, though Jack’s absence to such meals wasn’t new, the unspoken words hanging above the remaining group members was the only accompaniment to the clattering of cutlery on dishes.

               North and Aster were still in the dark about what was weighing so heavily on the other three, having bought Pitch’s excuse of Jack having a hard day at university as being the boy’s excuse for not partaking in the meal.

               “When Frosty comes down from his tower, can you let him know that his runty friend, Harold or whatever he’s called, popped by the store. He seemed worried about the kid. Tell him to call the boy back, ‘kay?” Aster through over his shoulder as he scrubbed at the sud covered dishes in the sink, before moving over to the frying pan.

                Pitch passed the dish he was drying over to Sandy, who was placing them back to their allocated places.

                “Why would young Hiccup go to your shop if he was after Jack? If I remember correctly, you banned Jack from the place after he left the windows open overnight last winter.”

                Aster’s grip tightens dangerously on the glass in hand, the author quick to remove it before the Australian’s short temper got the better of him.

                “Well, maybe he was desperate? Did something happen? It’s not like either of them to fight, despite all the shit Jack drags the other kid through.”

                “It’s probably a misunderstanding, it’ll clear up in time.” He takes the final plate, giving it a meticulous wipe over with the now damp dish towel, before handing it to Sandy, as their rhythm had been for the duration of the chore.

                Sink draining and work done, the three go to join Tooth and North in the lounge room.

                Perching on the edge of his armchair, Pitch meets Tooth’s pleading eyes.

                She obviously wanted to go check on Jack, to see if he was alright if her wringing hands and the way she chewed on her lip were any signs, but yet she was refraining, as if waiting for some signal from him before acting further.

               She was probably aware that maybe she wasn’t the best person for the job, a matter such as this was more on the delicate side, a problem solved with vague questions and the exchange of subtle hints along with reading the subtext behind the given words and actions.

               With a sigh, Pitch pushes himself out of the comfortable hold of the chair, the old piece of furniture creaking out at his departure.

               “I think I’ll go and get some work done, been on a roll with the planning for this next book. If I don’t come back out, goodnight, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He offered a brief wave back into the room as he retreated up the stairs.

               No-one bothered to point out that his room was downstairs.

               For someone who made their living by twisting words, Pitch wasn’t the best at lying.

 

               Standing outside the bland door at the end of the third floor hallway, Pitch raised his hand to knock on the door.

               “Just come in, I know you’re out there,” a muffled voice called from the other side.

               Pitch obliged, opening the door slowly, eyes adjusting to the change of lighting.

               Jack hadn’t bothered to turn his light on, despite the fact that it was well and truly dark. Instead opting to remain curled up on the dark blue beanbag on the floor.

               Pitch was always shocked to find that a boy as young and vibrant as Jack had such a Spartan set-up to his room. Simply furnished with a desk, a set of drawers, and a bed.

               No posters.

               No photos.

               Nothing decorated the white walls.

               Pitch made his way over to the bed, sitting on the edge, and waited.

               Minutes ticked by, with Jack’s head buried in his arms, drowning in the fabric of the-two-sizes-too-big hoody he was so fond of wearing as of late.

               “Did Hiccup pick that out for you?” He remembered seeing the print somewhere before. Knowing Jack wasn’t the one to buy overly ornate things for himself, it was easy to come to a conclusion.

               “Yeah, he dragged me to his cousin’s football game the other week, pay back for one thing or another. He said I had to look the part if I was to pass off as someone who knew what was going on.” Jack smiled sadly, the hint of laughter at the edge of his voice, though the tone was still melancholic.

               “The colour looks good on you. Really makes your eyes pop.”

               Now that got a laugh out of the boy.

               “That’s what he said to, although I never thought I’d be getting fashion advice from Mister Fifty Shades of Black.”

               The old defence mechanism of covering everything with humour was back.

               The time for subtlety was over.

               “So, what happened?”

               Jack began to curl back in on himself.

               “You’re not leaving until I spill, aren’t you?”

               Arms braced behind him, Pitch repositioned himself, back now pressed against the wall, spindly legs dangling off the side of the bed.

               “Correct.”

               The moonlight breaking through the unshaded window made Jack look even smaller and more pitiful than ever from his station on his beanbag.

               Jack groaned.

               “I was just an idiot, alright. Hiccup and Astrid got back together, again. He was all excited, and I didn’t do a very good job of being happy for him.”

               “And?”

               He sighed.

               “And he started asking about what my problem was, and I said some stupid things that I shouldn’t have. You know me, I speak before I think.

               “I was just, I was stupid, and naïve, and now he probably hates me, not that I blame him.”

               Voice no more than a whisper by the end, Jack starts to sniffle afresh.

               “Anything specific you’d like to share?”

               Jack shook his head, not that Pitch was expecting him to answer any differently.

               It was more for the gesture that Pitch asked, though. A way to let Jack know that he was there for him. He hoped the boy understood that.

               “I don’t know about you, but I could use a nice, hot mug of coffee. Care to join me?” Sliding off the bed, Pitch edges towards the door.

               Even in the minimal lighting, he can see how Jack hesitates, seeming to weigh his options.

               “I’ll be down, in a bit, is that alright?”

               “Sure thing, Jack.” Now in the open doorway, Pitch remembers Aster’s words from earlier.

               “Aster told me that Mister Haddock was asking for you at his shop this afternoon. Apparently he seemed worried. Sounds just like someone who hates your guts, doesn’t it?” He smiles back softly at the boy, whose blotchy face and shocked, wide eyes are lit by the light trickling in from the hallway.

               “I’ll see you in a bit, Jack.”

               Pitch leaves the door open, and glides down the staircase.

               Two cups of his imported Renaissance blend needed to be brewed after all.

               Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’d be able to pinch some of North’s chocolate biscuits without detection as well.

               There’s nothing like chocolate biscuits and good coffee to make you feel better, after all.            


End file.
